


just the sight of you (is getting the best out of me)

by helenblqckthorn



Category: Renegades - Marissa Meyer
Genre: Childhood Friends, Eventual Romance, Eventual relationship, Fluff, Foreshadowing, Friends to Lovers, Hugh POV, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, can otherwise be titled: the saga of hugh & simon's relationship, u can pry soccer hugh and glasses guitarist simon from my cold dead hands
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-15
Updated: 2019-04-15
Packaged: 2020-01-14 17:37:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18481087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helenblqckthorn/pseuds/helenblqckthorn
Summary: Hugh flips his paper over, convinced that it’s safe to play it cool, and his drawing stares back up at him.CAPTAINCHROMACHROMIUM, the title reads, and below it, sketched, is a blonde man decked out in a blue superhero costume, raising his fist towards the sky.“He looks cool,” Georgia leans over his paper interestedly. “What comic book is he from?”Hugh pauses, his pen resting on the hero’s fist. “Just one I’ve seen around somewhere.”the hugh/simon and renegades origin fic that nobody asked for, but i wrote anyway





	just the sight of you (is getting the best out of me)

**Author's Note:**

> HEY i'm completely obsessed with renegades and needed an outlet to pour all my feelings for the og squad out somewhere. i just rlly love those gay superhero dads you know??? i'm making this chaptered because i originally wrote a straight 30k on them but i hated how it turned out so each chapter is going to progress in the stages of their lives. i've probably forgotten a bunch of stuff to put in here but just a few notes:  
> \- if you see something that looks like one of your headcanons or posts or something in here, i've probably completely accepted it as canon and incorporated it in. if u guys want creds for those little bits pls let me know!!!  
> \- simon is taller than hugh, who is shorter and buff. change my mind, you cannot.  
> \- this is unbeta'd so i've probably made a million spelling mistakes

Hugh Everhart meets Simon Westwood when he’s eleven years old.

His mother drags him to a housewarming party in the neighborhood—mentioning something about a new family moving in on the short walk over. Hugh doesn’t pay too much attention, more interested in whether or not there’ll be food at the gathering (there will, his mother assures him). He’s also reluctant, being torn from his brand new game complex on the first week of its use and Mom, why do we even have to go to this boring party?

“They’re a new family, sweetheart,” his mother chastises as her heels click-clack on the concrete, sliding him a stern look over the gifts and cake in her hands. Hugh’s holding the bouquet of flowers, albeit reluctantly. “It’s polite to welcome them, and you’ll do well to remember that while we’re there.”

“No one welcomed us when _we_ moved in,” he grumbles, scowling.

“Honey, you weren’t alive when we moved in.”

Hugh briefly pauses in his stride. “Oh, yeah.”

He then resumes walking, hurrying to catch up with his mother’s quick pace.

“Where did you say they moved from?” He asks as they make their way up what he presumes is their garden path. The house before them is similar to that of their own, except Hugh notices a few differences: the windows don’t have grids, instead just a clear glass pane, and the front door is a startling shade of bright yellow. It’s a cheery, in-your-face sort of colour, and the sheer obnoxiousness of it makes him huff in amusement.

His mother frowns in the difficulty of recollecting the memory. “I think it was… Beirut? Here, give me the flowers.” She adjusts the homemade lemon drizzle cradled in her right arm to receive the bouquet he passes to her. “Can you ring the doorbell for me?”

“Sure,” Hugh complies, holding the circular button gently down for three counts of Mississippi, and releasing once he hears hurried footsteps heading towards the door.

It swings open, and a short lady that looks around his mom’s age greets them. She and his mom do that thing where they half embrace with an air kiss on each cheek of the other person, greeting each other in pitched voices, and then turns to him, saying, “And this must be Hugh!”

Hugh wonders who else he could be before they’re ushered in, but smiles charmingly and remembers his manners, as she thanks them for the gifts. Her teeth are very white against the brown of her skin, he notices, as she leads them in. She’s a stark contrast against the tall, blonde and pale Mrs. Everhart, and Hugh thinks she’s pretty. He kicks off his shoes at the front door, where a whole collection of adult shoes are piled.

Hugh sighs. He has a feeling that there aren’t going to be many playmates at this particular neighborhood party.

Sure enough, as he wanders through to the kitchen, he sees that the whole house is chock-full of tall, old people that comment on how tall he’s gotten since they last saw him. He makes a quick escape after the third person has exclaimed so, feigning having heard his mother call him.

The hall floor is polished wood, and he takes some enjoyment from sliding across the lounge to the dining area in his socks, almost slipping over in doing so. Hugh quickly looks from left to right to check if anyone had seen his near embarrassment, but thankfully no one had been watching. He finally spots his mom, talking to the lady that had greeted them—Mrs. Westbound or something, he’s not sure—and he catches the tail end of the conversation as he makes his way over, but the last few sentences his mother utters makes him freeze in automatic apprehension.

“...those awful Anarchists wreaking havoc in the city center. I couldn’t deal with it! I’m so glad we’re not near the action, in a safe, family friendly neighborhood, away from them. How was the… _problem_ in Beirut? I can’t imagine…”

His mother can chat the hind leg off a donkey, a fact for which he and his dad tease her. But that’s not what he focuses on at all, swallowing nervously and fighting to keep his face impassive as he approaches them.

“Oh, sweetheart! We were just talking about you.”

“You… were?” He feels his chest seize in panic, putting the topic they had just been discussing and that they had been talking about him together, coming to the conclusion that his mom had found—

“Yes! My son is outside in the treehouse, and he’s been quite lonely without anyone his age to play with. If you want to, you could go and join him?” Mrs. West-something suggests brightly, and Hugh’s panic deflates, and he gives her the smile that usually makes adults comment on what “a delightful young man” he is. “Okay.”

At this point, he would be eager to interact with anyone under the age of twenty, the atmosphere of adulthood beginning to suffocate him. A boy his age is even better, as they can probably find some common interest for the remainder of the party. He steps outside into the garden, spotting the treehouse immediately, in the middle of the garden, but also a trampoline and a couple of soccer balls. Hugh perks up at the sight of them, now sure that he can find something interesting to do, relieved to be rid of the boring conversations of the household.

The treehouse ladder is sturdy—well built, and doesn’t creak at all as he grabs onto the rungs. Perhaps that’s why the boy in the treehouse doesn’t stop what he’s doing, unaware of the company he’s acquired.

Because when Hugh pokes his head through the opening in the wooden floor, the boy in the treehouse is sitting cross-legged in the corner, staring down at his hand, a bored expression on his face.

His hand, which is disappearing in and out of sight, every few seconds.

Hugh stares in utter awe, slowly taking another step up the ladder to get a better view. He must make some sort of noise though, or the movement catches in the other boy’s peripheral, for his head snaps up in surprise. His eyes widen and his face is a horrified panic, and he quickly shoves his hand behind his back, as if that will somehow erase Hugh’s memory of it turning invisible.

“Don’t tell,” he whispers, his voice shaking and his body tense. “Please don’t tell.”

He suddenly realises how he must look, gaping at this display of superpowers—which are practically taboo in Gatlon City. Anyone caught displaying them usually aren’t ever seen again, locked up somewhere… or worse.

“Wait, no, no,” the words tumble quickly out of his mouth, and he puts his hands up as if he’s calming a distressed horse. Which turns out to be a mistake, as he loses his balance on the ladder, and almost falls backwards with a yelp, but manages to grab onto the floor with one hand to regain it. He hasn’t exactly gotten used to… recent changes, and dodges out of harm's way in spite of the fact that it doesn’t exactly matter if he’s in it.

The boy is still staring at him, petrified, but Hugh thinks he can detect a little incredulity at his display of eagerness to speak, completely opposing what he was probably expecting. He takes a few steps up into the treehouse, and the boy is still clearly wary, as he rapidly scoots away from him, back flat against the flimsy treehouse wall.

“Okay,” Hugh accepts, knowing that he probably isn’t going to convince him of trustworthiness with words. Even if he can usually do so, this sort of situation is certainly an anomaly. And besides, he doesn’t really want to persuade him with with some sort of endearing front, instead with something… something genuine. “You don’t have to listen to me. Just—watch.”

The boy doesn’t audibly respond, but his eyes crinkle in puzzlement. Hugh takes this as a go-ahead, and he sits at a distance from him, crossing his legs. He takes a deep breath, and holds his hands out in front of him.

At first, nothing happens. But Hugh concentrates, shutting his surroundings out, and remaining solely focused on the picture in his head. And slowly, it begins to take shape between his hands. The metal particles spin rapidly into existence, taking the solid form that he wishes.

Once it’s completed, it drops into his open hands, and the space rushes back into reality, the boy now the one staring open-mouthed. He hesitates, then shuffles towards Hugh on his knees, staring at the object that is cupped in Hugh’s hands.

It’s a star. Sure, a rough, slightly uneven star, but a star nonetheless. A shiny, silvery-blue metal, it twinkles in the mid afternoon sun as they both gaze at it.

“What—what is it made of?” The boy speaks astonishedly, for the first time since begging him to not tattle, looking quickly up at him and down again at the metal.

“I don’t really know,” Hugh admits. He hadn’t exactly gotten around to telling anyone that he could _do_ this, let alone asking anyone to try and identify it. “It’s inder—indestructible though.” He explains, stumbles over the large word. The word defines the metal in its entirety though, as he’d tested its strength by dunking it in the sink generator. The entire plumbing system had broken for several days as a consequence.

“Can I… hold it?” The boy asks, tentatively.

“Sure,” Hugh tips it into his hands, and they both watch the metal star, as he turns it over and examines it from all angles.

“I also have super strength,” he finds it important to add hurriedly, fervently trying not to frighten this curious boy away. “And I think I’m invincible.”

When the boy looks quizzically at him, Hugh feels a flash of embarrassment for having run his mouth too soon. Of course he doesn’t want to hear the long list of things they shouldn’t be talking so openly about.

“How?” He asks, though, interest in his face, proving Hugh wrong in his assumptions.

“Oh,” Hugh says, heart lifting in pleased happiness, all too ready to elaborate. Keeping a massive secret like this was harder than it sounded, and he was bursting at the seams most days in his attempt to try to keep a normal facade up. “Like… when I fall down on the concrete, I don’t scrape my knees at all. Or if I fell out of this treehouse right now, I wouldn’t be hurt at all. Here,” he grabs a loose nail from the corner of the treehouse, and pokes at his upper arm with it, putting enough pressure on it for the skin for an indent to be visible, but as he takes the nail away, there’s not a mark to be seen. Not a scratch on him.

“Woah,” the boy says.

“I know.”

“So… you’re like the metal,” his dark eyebrows, framing his intrigued deep brown eyes, furrow in thought as he taps the star with his thumb, still cupping it.

“What?”

“You’re indestructible right? And super strong. So you’re kind of like a human version of the metal.”

Hugh gapes at him, putting the comparison together in his head, and realising that it makes complete sense. “That’s actually… super smart.”

The boy smiles unexpectedly, and it’s a bright, pleased smile that changes his whole face, so infectious that Hugh can’t help but grin bashfully as well.

“Your thing is invisibility, right?”

“Ah… yeah. Sorry about that whole thing earlier,” the boy rubs the back of his neck, grimacing.

“Nah, don’t worry,” Hugh waves him off. “I know how it is. Can you like… turn me invisible as well?”

“I don’t think so. I haven’t tried other people, but I can go completely invisible with my clothes and everything.”

“Can you show me?”

The boy gives him a mischievous grin, and disappears into thin air. Hugh involuntarily intakes a small breath, fascinated with the way in which one moment he was there, then next the air shimmered—and he was gone.

“Wow,” Hugh is once again in awe. “That’s awesome.”

When there’s no response from the area in front of him, he frowns. “Hello?”

The boy manifests about half a foot away from him, grinning madly and yelling, “BOO!”

Hugh doesn't shriek, but it’s a close thing. His heart rate jumps as he falls back in surprise, breath coming fast at the sudden shock. He covers his face with his hands as the boy cackles madly, gasping with laughter as Hugh gasps for air after the scare.

“That’s _not_ funny!” Hugh attempts to be annoyed, but once he lifts his head up to see him splayed out and hiccuping with the remnants of laughter, it’s near impossible and he ends up in a fit of giggles next to the boy.

“My name’s Simon,” the boy turns his head to say to Hugh, whilst they remain lying on the floor side-by-side, nearly breathless.

“I’m Hugh,” he replies, cheeks hurting from smiling.

***

Simon, as it turned out, had actually developed his powers, rather than having been born with them and them revealing themselves later on in life.

“But how do you know that you weren’t just born with them?” Hugh had asked curiously, as they’d dribbled the soccer ball between them in Simon’s backyard, some days later.

It has developed as an effect of his social anxiety, Simon explains to him. As a child, he’d hated being the center of attention so much that he’d try and hide when guests would come over. It had been his crippling fear, so much so that one day, when he’d dropped a bunch of apples in the grocery store that he had been getting for his mother, and once everyone had looked around, he’d simply disappeared out of the response to sheer embarrassment.

He hadn’t realised at first—just wondered why no one was looking anymore. But then a bunch of people had bumped into him on his way back to his mom through the isles, looking confusedly at where Simon was standing. He couldn’t understand why everyone was suddenly so rude—and then he’d walked past the sunglasses stand, and had seen no reflection of himself.

“I was standing directly in front of it, with my hand on it, and couldn’t see myself,” Simon explained, kicking the ball across to Hugh. “It was so scary.”

“It must have been,” Hugh pauses with the soccer ball under his foot, unable to fully imagine the scenario. Not being able to see yourself sounded straight out of a horror movie.

“So after that, I started screaming really loudly. Like, really loudly,” Simon scratches at his arm, perhaps nervous at retelling an experience that had been unspoken for so long. He’s told Hugh that he’s the first person to hear this, having never dared tell anyone else. It gives Hugh a twinge of pride in his chest---that he’s trustworthy enough to hear this, after a week of knowing Simon. “And everyone was looking around like, ‘Where is that coming from?!’”

He flails his hands to express this dramatic statement, and Hugh finds himself cracking a smile in spite of the serious story. “Then what happened?”

“Then I ran back to my mom, and on the way I switched back to normal. I think I lost my control on the power, because it was so new to me.”

“Huh.”

Hugh kicks the ball absentmindedly, deep in thought, and in doing so sends it flying towards the Simon, barely missing him, and toppling the goal over.

“Um… sorry. It’s hard to switch off sometimes,” he shoves his hands in his pockets awkwardly, self-conscious. But Simon doesn’t look scared, or weirded out by his strength, only going to retrieve it.

He kicks it again towards Hugh. “I know that feeling.”

Hugh grins, kicking it back. “Really?”

“Oh yeah,” Simon nods vigorously. “Every time I get too embarrassed, too flustered, every time

something scares me,” he snaps his fingers, and disappears to make the point.

“How has no one noticed yet?” Hugh asks, amazed.

“I have no idea!” He throws his hands up in exasperation, flickering back into visibility. “Like, I’m literally not there for at least a full second. Usually people think their eyes are playing tricks on them, but it’s starting to get annoying. I swear the universe is pranking me.”

Hugh holds his hands out in front of him, and dials a pretend phone. “Hello Simon? It’s the universe calling, and we’re sorry to say that you are not, in fact, on a prank show, and that people are disappointingly dumb. Cheerio!”

He makes a long, high-pitched beeping noise to imitate the dial tone, and Simon groans, rolling his eyes.

“I don’t think I’ve heard jokes as bad as yours. I’m literally speechless.”

“Hi literally speechless, I’m dad!” Hugh crows, and gets the soccer ball thrown at his head.

***

Unlike Simon, Hugh hadn’t developed his powers. At least—he thinks so. It hadn’t been anything dramatic either, he had just woken up one day and accidentally crushed the doorknob to his bedroom between his fingers.

It had taken a moment to sink in.  

He’d blinked at the doorknob, opened the door and walked to the bathroom, unable to process what had just occurred, at such an early hour.

It had only been when he’d squeezed the toothpaste, and it had exploded onto the ceiling, that he’d really began to freak out. The toothpaste had been hurriedly cleared away, and he’d thrown the knob out of the window—for no doorknob was certainly less questionable than the shape of a hand having crushed it on it.

Hugh had pretended to be sick to stay off school, claiming of a headache and stomachache, and as soon as the sound of his mother’s car had reached a comfortable distance, he’d thrown off the covers, shaking with adrenaline, and had tried to figure out what exactly he could do, having already come to the dreaded conclusion that he was… one of them.

By the end of the day, he’d reached the conclusion that a) He was a prodigy. At least, that’s one of the kinder words they were called by normal people. b) He could not, under any circumstances, reveal this to anyone. He’d seen kids in the playground accidentally take off in flight, or zap someone whilst playing tag, only to be dragged away by a terrified looking adult, or worse, the police or guards, never to be seen again. c) He had super strength. And apparent immunity to basically—everything.

The metal thing had taken a little longer to figure out, for it wasn’t like he was looking for the ability to materialise indestructible metal between his hands. But he’d found out. While in a grump up in his room because his mom wouldn’t get him the new controller he wanted, and it had suddenly taken shape in a weird, bluish metal right in front of his eyes.

There had been no one to talk to. No one to freak out to, or rant to. No adult he could fully trust, no even his parents. Hugh had seen one too many cases of kids being disowned for being a prodigy for him to be absolutely certain that his parents would be okay with his powers. It was a lonely existence.

Needless to say, the happy coincidence of the boy a few doors down being in the almost exact same situation was too good to be true.

***

“Are you sure we should be doing this?” Simon whispers.

“Shh! It’ll be fine.”

“If we get caught, I’m blaming you.”

Hugh tears his glance away from the hallway to shoot Simon an aghast look. “You want this as much as I do!”

“Yeah, but I’m the one actually risking something, you’re literally just going to stand in the hall.”

“Excuse me, lookout is a _very_ crucial part of the operation.”

“Hugh!”

He shakes his head and makes a shoo-ing motion with his hands. “Just go!”

Simon gives him the evil eye, then fades into invisibility. Hugh shuffles behind the corner of wall even further, keeping one eye on the hallway, and one on the kitchen. Muffled voices come from the living room, and if he listens closely enough, he can hear Simon’s mother laughing at something Hugh’s dad had said.

He hears a clank from the kitchen, and whips his head towards it. Simon briefly flickers into visibility, looking panicked as he holds a plate precariously.

“It almost fell,” he hisses, and Hugh silently gestures frantically to be quiet.

He turns invisible again, and the plate hovers in midair before setting itself back onto the counter. Hugh watches as a knife is lifted out of the drawer, as if of its own accord, and slices into the big chocolate cake on the side. Two slices are cut, and float in the air.

He’s close to doing a victory dance, when he hears footsteps.

Hugh’s mother is on her way to the kitchen.

There are a few choice words that nearly slip out of his mouth, but instead he freezes and flattens himself against the corner, praying that Simon hides the cake somehow.

The sound of the tap running fills the air, and he can hear her filling up a glass of water. The footsteps retreat back into the living room, and silence fills the air once more. Hugh risks a peek into the kitchen, to check if anyone else is making their way into the room , and Simon reappears right in front of him.

Hugh clutches at his chest, eyes bugging out of his head from the scare, trying to slow his breathing. He’s not sure if he’ll ever get used to that.

Simon looks distinctively pleased, and he motions for them to hasten to the basement. They run, giddy from the adrenaline and promise of cake, and shut the door quickly behind them, tumbling down the stairs together.

Hugh looks down at Simon’s hands expectantly once they’re down there, only to find them empty. “Wait! Where’s the cake?”

If possible, Simon seems even more excited. “When your mom came into the kitchen, I panicked, and _this_ happened.”

The slices of cake appear in his hands, and he beams at this newly discovered ability.

“Holy crap,” Hugh gasps. “You can turn stuff invisible now?”

“I didn’t think I could!” Simon grins. “This is _so_ cool.”

He hands the left slice to Hugh, who takes it at once.

“This is really good cake,” he says, muffled through a mouthful of it. “I’m super glad you’re my friend.”

Simon nods after taking a bite himself and groaning at the moist, chocolaty taste of the sweet loaf. “Me too.”

***

“Thank you,” Hugh smiles at the ice cream man, after they’ve taken their respective cones from his outstretched arms. He tips his head at them in acknowledgement, and they turn away, flip flops slapping the hot concrete pavement. The sun is out for early summer, and there doesn’t seem to be a cloud in the sky, with the exception of a few in the very far distance, that look like paintings more than anything else.

It’s peaceful, with Simon walking beside him, and the promise of a long, lazy afternoon. So of course it’s interrupted.

He adjusts his grip on the ice cream, distracted by what Simon’s saying about school getting nearer. He’s starting his last grade of elementary at Hugh’s school, purely by coincidence. Hugh’s glad—Simon’s seems nervous about the prospect of entering a new environment, and it’ll be easier to do with someone he already knows there. That, and Simon is a closer friend to Hugh than anyone at school, even though he’s only known him for half year.

Something cold runs down his hands, and he stops, looking down. By accident, while he’d been wandering amongst his thoughts, he’d crushed the whole ice cream cone, and as he watches, the main scoop splatters onto the sidewalk below him.

All at once, he feels unreasonably and irritatingly sad, and sits down on the burning hot sidewalk---which doesn’t actually feel burning hot to him. He can’t really feel burns.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Simon says, dark eyes concerned.

To his horror, Hugh begins to feel the prickle of tears in the corners of his eyes. “Sometimes I hate this stupid power.”

Even not being able to feel pain vexes him. He wants to _feel_ something, feel something that will actually affect him, to feel... regular. He wonders what people feel when they stub their toe, or get a papercut. Probably normal.

He covers his face as a few tears make their way down his cheeks.

It’s a stupid thing to wish, he knows. There’s no point in crying over spilt milk, his mom always tells him. Or in this case—spilt ice cream. It still aches sometimes though, having to be fully focused on handling everything he touches, the fear of being discovered too great to subconsciously ignore. Having to fake pain when he falls over, or skids on his knees, wondering what it would be like to actually feel it. To feel ordinary.

“Hey,” Simon knocks his knee against Hugh’s, having sat down next to him without him noticing. Hugh looks at him reluctantly, humiliated by this sudden breakdown, and finds Simon with his arm outstretched, ice cream in hold, offering it to him. “It’s gonna be okay. It sucks now, but it’s going to be okay.”

Hugh stares at him, roughly wiping away the wetness from his face and sniffing a couple of times, looking at his friend’s hopeful, open face.

He gives him a watery smile, and takes the ice cream.

 ***

Georgia shows up when he and Simon are in the midst of doodling superheroes.

“Hey, Hugh!” She says brightly, hopping up the garden steps to the lawn, and he freezes, blue crayon hovering over his paper. A quick glance to the right confirms that Simon is wearing a similar deer-caught-in-headlights expression. “What’s up? My mom said it was okay for me to come over with her. I think the adults are having coffee or something.”

He discreetly flips his page over. “Hey, Georgia. Um, this is Simon.”

Simon waves. “Hi.”

“‘Sup, Simon,” she nods. “I’m the Georgia from soccer club.”

“Ohhh,” he says, eyebrows raising, making the connection. “You’re that Georgia! Nice to meet you. Anyone that can beat Hugh in a game is definitely my friend.”

Georgia throws her head back and snorts, while Hugh tries to keep a scowl on his face, but finds it impossible with George’s infectious laughter. “That was one time!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Simon teases. “One time is more than none.”

Hugh rolls his eyes fondly as Georgia high-fives Simon. “You two are the worst.”

“On the contrary, mon amie,” she puts on a faux-french accent as she sits across from them on the picnic blanket, legs splayed everywhere. Hugh knows that Georgia cannot be contained by the social norm of sitting legs crossed or on her knees. She defies all constraints and does so with a flick of her dreads and a winning smile.

Georgia casts a quick glance around at the paper and colouring utensils. “What are you guys doing with all this stuff?”

“Uh…” Hugh draws out the word, stalling, unsure of what to say.

Simon takes it upon himself to answer, glancing at him. “Doodling.”

Hugh resists an exasperated glance over at him. If Georgia asks to see what they’re drawing—

“Oh, can I join? What’re you doodling?”

“Comic book characters!” Simon blurts out nervously, joints whitening with the grip on his crayon he’s holding. “Um, obviously good guys. Not like,” he looks right and left before whispering, as if someone would be hiding in Hugh’s family bushes, waiting to catch them out, “ _Ace Anarchy_ , of course. Good guys.”

Georgia’s left eye squints slightly, and Hugh can almost feel a sweat breaking out on his forehead. But her expression clears again and she appears relaxed. “Cool! I’ll do some of those as well.”

Hugh flips his paper over, convinced that it’s safe to play it cool, and his drawing stares back up at him.

CAPTAIN ~~CHROMA~~ CHROMIUM, the title reads, and below drawn is a blonde man decked out in a blue superhero costume, raising his fist towards the sky.

“He looks cool,” Georgia leans over his paper interestedly. “What comic book is he from?”

Hugh pauses, his pen resting on the hero’s fist. “Just one I’ve seen around somewhere.”

***

“Did you see Bradley’s face today when I scored that goal on him?” Georgia snorts, shaking her head with a smile on her face. “Priceless.”

“It was hilarious,” Hugh agrees whilst grinning, reliving the memory. “I’ve never seen him as mad.”

They’re in the backyard again, time having passed. The leaves are all orange and golden now, floating to the ground in piles at the slightest of breezes.

He and Georgia kick the ball around and chat a while more about the club, and little about school. She isn’t attending the same elementary as him, but they’re planning on going to the same middle and high school, which Hugh is looking forward to. High school seems so far away, yet something he looks forward to. To be one of those towering teenagers, and have all that freedom? He can’t wait.

Soon enough, Simon joins them, and gives them both a wave as he nears.

“Where’ve you been?” Hugh asks, tossing the ball up in the air on alternating knees, a new trick he’d learnt that he wants to show off to him.

“Guitar practice, sorry,” Simon blows his hair out of his face. It’s in need of a haircut, something Simons mother has been saying she’ll do for a week or two, but hasn’t gotten around to doing it so far. “Cool trick, by the way.”

“Thanks,” He flashes a smile, catching the ball in midair with his hands.

“I don’t think we want to stand around watching Hugh show off,” Georgia places her hands on her hips, smirking. “Should we play something else?”

Hugh sticks his tongue out at her good naturedly, and she returns the gesture.

“We could do layups,” she suggests, and Hugh shakes his head, grimacing.

“We do too many of those in practice.”

“Alright,” Georgia amends. “Penalties?”

“Nah, too boring.”

“One on one—oh wait, sorry Simon, we didn’t even ask if you wanted to.”

“Um…” Simon’s unsure tone catches Hugh’s attention, and he watches as he scratches uncomfortably at his hair. “I don’t really know how to play soccer.”

“I didn’t really want too either,” Hugh chimes in. “It’s a bit much after practice today, George.”

She shrugs, “Fine by me.”

Simon shoots Hugh a discreet, grateful smile, and Hugh quirks his lips back at him.

“Hide and seek?” He suggests, and they both nod in approval. “I’ll be it.”

He covers his eyes with his hands, letting them run to look for hiding spots, their footsteps crunching in the dry leaves as they distance themselves from him. After he counts up to twenty, he allows himself to look.

Georgia is easy to find, she’s concealed herself underneath a pile of leaves, and as a result the leaf pile looks oddly misshapen. She sighs when she’s found, claiming hide and seek to be her only weakness, and then together they scour the backyard to Simon, only to come up empty handed. They keep searching, upturning benches and rifling through all of the bushes, but he’s nowhere to be seen.

To be seen… Hugh smiles inwardly.

“I guess we’ll never find him,” he says wearily to Georgia, acting as if he doesn’t know exactly where Simon is. She’s determined to find him though, using one of her “never give up” slogans on him.

Eventually they find him, hiding in a bushy tree that they’ve searched at least three times, unable to stifle his giggles. Georgia swears that they had checked that spot properly, and Simon tells her that he moved around the garden in different hiding spots, and as he does so, catches Hugh’s eye, and can’t stop the corner of his mouth slowly lifting into a grin.

***

A lunch tray slams down on the table, jolting Hugh so that his fork falls onto the salad on his tray. Simon follows after the lunch tray, thumping down onto the seat and stabbing the pasta viciously, angrily shoving it into his mouth.

“Damn, Si. Who pissed in your cornflakes?” Hugh raises his eyebrows, picking up his fork up again. He’s thirteen now, so he’s basically allowed to say stuff like that. At least out of earshot of his parents.

Simon chews his pasta, and swallows it, not without some degree of ire, and deflates, gloomily whining, “ _Apparently_ , I have to get glasses.”

Hugh blinks. “That’s it?”

That makes sense, actually, he thinks, remembering the times in class he’s had to explain what’s on the whiteboard, whilst Simon squints in vain at the scribbled handwriting. And when he’s had to scoot closer to the TV at either of their houses, and—come to think of it, how did this not occur to him sooner?

“That’s it? Do you know how annoying it’ll be?” Simon asks, with an intense look. “I’ll basically have to _pay_ to see.”

“Yeah, I guess that’s true.” A sudden, brilliant thought occurs to him. “Oh man, the amount of jokes that can be made out of this though.”

“Hugh, _no_ —” Simon starts, realising exactly where this is headed.

“The guy that you can't see, CAN’T SEE!” He gleefully cackles, drawing a few odd looks from the surrounding tables.

“Thank you, Captain Obvious,” Simon sighs, resigning to his fate of at least a week of related puns.

***

“Hey, would you like some movie with that popcorn?” Hugh asks, viewing the empty bowl of snacks situated in front of his best friend. Simon side-eyes him and grabs at the remnants of the popcorn, crunching on a few of the seeds. Hugh grimaces. He may be the invincible one out of the two of them, but Simon’s terrible habit of eating popcorn seeds straight from the packet would suggest otherwise.

He sits down, laying on his front and mirroring Simon’s position on the carpet, his eyes glued to the television before them. A man on screen is fighting another, doing backflips and complex maneuvers to best the other, as well as some good old-fashioned punches.

“What did you put on?” He asks aloud, eyes now similarly transfixed to the screen in an almost hypnotic fashion, as he is with any superhero movie. It’s one thing of the things he and Simon share in common—they’re both a sucker for any movie that includes a lot of action sequences.

Simon absently kicks his legs in the air behind him as he answers. “Captain America: The Winter Soldier.”

“Sounds cool,” he replies, as the three ships on the screen blow up in unison. “Woah! What was that?”

“That guy,” Simon points to the tv, explaining on the side to Hugh. “Is Hydra. But he was brainwashed, and he’s also the Captain America’s best friend. But Hydra just blew up the ships, so they’re both probably going to drown.”

“Damn. Wait, how is the other guy alive if Captain America is like, eighty years old?”

“Remember the first movie when he fell off that train?”

“Yeah… didn’t he like, die?”

“No no, he was frozen by Hydra and basically made into an evil Captain America.”

“Wow,” Hugh takes a handful of gummy worms, his eyebrows lifted. “That’s complicated.”

“Yeah,” Simon does the same, eyes still trained on the screen. “You know, I was thinking, why aren’t these movies like, banned? They have people with powers.”

Hugh ponders this question, after slurping down a worm. His eyebrows crinkle, puzzlement taking control of his features. “Maybe it’s because… they’re good? There aren’t exactly any _good_ people with powers around at the minute.”

It’s lucky that they live in the suburb area of the city, he often thinks. Most of the action is in the city centre, and all the high streets—well, what’s left of them. He doesn’t think there’s a day that goes by without some report of a theft or case of destruction in Gatlon city, usually by a prodigy. Or as more hateful people call them—us, he reminds himself—a colourful assortment of rude words. The government and police force are on the brink of collapse—according to his parents hushed conversations that he isn’t supposed to hear, but ends up overhearing through the thin walls anyways—and if that does happen, it’s only a matter of time before the whole city is overrun with crime and destruction.

“Yeah, you’re probably right. Same for comic books.”

“I wish there were good superheroes.” He comments, off handedly after a minute of watching the brown haired dude dragging Captain America out of the lake on the television. “Imagine how different things would be.”

“Yeah,” sighs Simon, finally dragging his attention away from the movie to look dejectedly at him, propping his head up in one hand. “But who on earth would be crazy enough to go up against Ace Anarchy?”

His black rimmed glasses are sliding halfway down his nose, a position that he finds Simon in almost every time he’s wearing them.

“True,” He amends, pushing them back into their intended spot on the bridge of his nose, as he always does. Simon gives him a lopsided smile, and they turn back to movie.

***

Simon’s secret almost gets out when they’re in the middle of math class.

The teacher is droning on about the rules of geometry, and Hugh’s fighting to stay awake on this late Friday afternoon. Usually he’s a pretty attentive student, but the whole week has just been exhausting, especially after double soccer yesterday with Georgia, and staying up probably far too late with Simon on their regular sleepover last night. Hugh’s mouth twitches remembering how hard he’d laughed, as it had been so late that they’d both ended up blurting out completely random gibberish and bursting into laughter for no reason at all. Belly-aching, tear inducing laughter. Simon’s mom had had to come upstairs three times to scold them on how late they were up, and to get to sleep, after which they’d remained silent for approximately one minute, until one of them would snort or make a noise and the other would guffaw with laughter, starting the cycle all over again.

“Could I borrow a pencil?” Lea whispers from next to him, jerking him out of his temporary daydream, and he nods, rubbing at his eyes and checking the clock.

Fifteen more minutes. He exhales despairingly.

Then Simon, who’s occupying the seat in front of him, cracks his fountain pen, and it spurts _everywhere_ , all over his work, the people next to him, his clothes and his face.

There’s a brief second of silence. Then the class erupts into laughter, because humiliation is the source of humour for most fourteen year olds.

Hugh watches Simon’s back with a sinking feeling of dread, seeing his shoulders bunch up as he frantically tries to mop up the mess. Even though Simon has a far better grip on his invisibility than when he was little, it still can slip in moments of intense emotion, especially embarrassment. Which means any second now, he’s going to uncontrollably disappear, and his power will be revealed to every nosy teenager in the room.

Which means Hugh has to act fast. He glances quickly out of the window, and improvises.

“Oh my god, is that _the Detonator_?!” He yells above the noise, clapping one hand to his forehead and the pointing the other to the outside.

The reaction is instantaneous. The whole class gasps, and runs to the window to catch a glimpse of the villain Hugh had randomly named off the top of his head. They all push up against each other, trying to spot her, surprisingly interested in prodigies for people who act like they’re diseased when encountering them in real life. He finds that quite a common occurrence, actually, that most generally act as if the prodigies they know, with some sort of familiarity, have a plague or curse. But they clamour to see any fight, robbery, or really any sort of spectacle to do with them. He finds it supremely unfair.

Hugh glances back to Simon as the class shout over each other, claiming they’ve seen her in the far distance, to find him already looking with such an expression of thanks that he feels the tips of his ears heat. He smiles sheepishly back, hands fidgeting with the awkwardness that comes with the attention. Only those that really know him, know that he’s slightly uncomfortable being the source of gratitude.

“Thank you,” Simon mouths, mopping the pen ink off of his face with his sweater, the class having completely disregarded about his momentary embarrassment in favour of Hugh’s “sighting”, including even the teacher. Crisis avoided.

He flashes him a wink, and mouths back, “No problem.”

***

“I think we were supposed to add the milk _after_ the flour,” Hugh squints at the printed recipe that he held aloft. “Wait, and the butter before the eggs.”

“Give me that,” Simon says exasperatedly, snatching the paper from his hand—prompting a ‘hey!’ from Hugh—and scrunching up his nose to shift his glasses upwards, avoiding floury hands on the lenses. He scans the paper, face slowly morphing into despair. “So we’ve basically done the whole thing wrong.”

“I’m sure it’ll be the same,” Hugh dusts his hands confidently, unbothered. “What difference does it even make?”

As it turns out, it makes a lot of difference.

“It’s… interesting,” Simon chews thoughtfully, an odd expression on his face.

Hugh spits his in the trash can. “ _Why_ is it _rubbery_?”

“Maybe because you didn’t follow the instructions.”

“Maybe because _I_ didn’t follow the instructions? I very clearly recall _someone_ telling me to crack the eggs first.”

“ _Crack_ the eggs, not _add_ them!”

Hugh seizes a handful of flour from the packet, and tossed it at Simon. “Oops.”

Simon blinks, and slowly clears the flour from his glasses with a swipe from each hand. “Oh, it is _on_.”

“Wait—!” He manages to get out, before Simon throws handfuls of the cooking supplies at Hugh, coughing on the flour from Hugh’s toss that he’d accidentally inhaled by laughing at him.

They end up both completely covered in different condiments, butter in Hugh’s hair, cocoa powder all the way down Simon’s neck, and having turned the kitchen into a complete dump. When Hugh’s mother comes to see what all the clatter and noise had been about, and consequently yells at them after seeing the room in total ruins, they’re too busy coming apart with laughter on the floor, clutching their sides in giggles to take her threats seriously.

It’s not a surprise to say that they both fail that Home Ec assignment.

***

“So there I was—”

“Barbecue sauce on my tittes.”

“Shut _up_ Hugh,” Simon says without any real heat, grinning as he palms his hand over his best friend’s face. “I was there talking with my mom about it, and my little sister wanders in without us hearing, and she asks, ‘Why are you both talking about—”

He breaks off, glancing at Hugh. “What’s the word for uh— _bidhara_? Like the thing you plant—”

“Seed,” Hugh supplies.

“Right, seed. She’s like ‘Why are you talking about seeds? Are we planting a tree?’ And my mom and I just stare at her, until my mom does the fakest smile you’ll ever see and tells her ‘Yes, sweetie! We are.”

Leo throws his head back and chortles at the poor, high-pitched impression of Simon’s mother, and the other two boys doing the same. ‘Inappropriate’ humour is a go-to fail safe for boys their age, Hugh thinks.

“Dude, that’s like, so fake,” Dylan snorts. “And your sister believed that?”

“She’s seven!” Simon exclaims, which only makes them all snicker more.

***

“Do you want to be top or tails tonight?” Hugh asks, plumping up one of the pillows on the bed, cross legged in his faded Star Wars pyjamas.

Simon jumps onto the bed, rolling onto his back to stretch, joints popping, and to gaze up at the glow-in-the-dark stars on Hugh’s ceiling. “I don’t mind. Tails?”

“Cool,” he replies, chucking the other pillow onto Simon’s head, which he pulls off, and tucks underneath his head as he lays in the opposite way to him.

“Night.”

“G’night.”

***

Hugh lets out a sound of frustration as he attempts to untangle his earphones, which have become a lump of wires as they’ve fallen to the bottom of his bag. Simon, who’s chatting to Madeline across the school bus aisle, takes them without looking, and expertly untangles them, glancing down a few times to see what he’s doing, but otherwise continuing the conversation. He hands them back to Hugh, completely flattened and straightened out, and he plugs them into his iPod.

Georgia, who’s watched this whole exchange from the seat behind them, props her arms up on the back of their seat. “I swear you guys are in sync or something.”

Hugh pauses his device, having just heard her over his music, crinkling his eyes, and responding in a matter-of-fact fashion. “What makes you say that?”

Georgia simply raises a brow in response, sitting back in her seat.

***

“I’m totally about to kick your ass,” Georgia grunts, smashing her thumb down on the controller haphazardly.

Hugh retaliates the attack, face screwed up in determination. “Not as much as I’m about to kick _yours_.”

“Oh _yeah_?”

“Yeah!”

Georgia lets out a howl of aggression, spurring herself onward to beating him, rapidly pounding her thumb onto the controller. She does win eventually, in an epic move that leaves his character with little cartoon X’s as his eyes, tongue hanging out gratuitously.

He throws the controller down. “NO!”

“YES!” She screams in victory, kicking her legs out, displaying her odd socks, and flailing her arms around in the air.

Hugh thumps his head down as he lays on the floor, with a mournful expression on his face. “I have been bested.”

“That’s _right_ you have,” Georgia does a winners dance around the room, macarena-ing right in his face. “I won and you lost, I won and you lost,” she sings, breathlessly, and then flops back onto the moth-eaten couch. “Hey, where’s Simon?”

He tips his head up and looks at her upside down, limbs splayed out on the scratchy carpet. “He’s recovering from this lunchtime.”

“Ohh, right,” Georgia nods. Then she pauses, eyebrows furrowing. “Hey, how did you know to bring an epipen, by the way? I never asked.”

That lunchtime, Simon had accidentally eaten one of the prawns that had been mistakenly placed on his meal, and had immediately started gasping for breath, turning purple in the face, as he’s extraordinarily allergic to shellfish. Hugh had launched himself off of the seat, run at a breakneck speed that risked being questionably fast for a supposed non-prodigy, and had grabbed an epipen from his backpack outside the lunch room, stabbing it into Simon’s thigh before any of the supervising teachers even blinked.

“Well, I carry around an epipen just in case something like that happens,” Hugh tells her, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world to do for your friend. “Who wouldn’t?”

“Uh, a lot of people,” she says dryly, bemused by his behaviour.

Hugh shrugs, turning back to the video game to start another game. “Hey, want to try a round two?”

“Hm. Sure.”

***

Later that evening, he drops over to Simon’s house to check how he’s doing. His mom hugs him fiercely after she opens the door to him, thanking him profusely and peppering kisses all across the top of his head, which he bears out of the sake of politeness. And his fondness of Mrs. Westwood, of course.

He makes his way up to Simon’s room, only to find the door open and him seated on the bed, fully immersed in a book that’s on his lap.

Hugh taps twice on the open door. “Knock, knock.”

Simon looks up, startled, but his face breaks into an easy smile once he sees who it is. “Hey.”

“How are you holding up?” He asks, flopping onto his back across the bed, careful not to land on his best friend, just in case he’s still feeling under the weather.

“All this attention is completely unnecessary,” Simon blows out an irritated breath, snapping his book shut. “I had an allergic reaction, not a heart attack.”

“Sure, you only stopped breathing for a minute or two,” Hugh drawls, leaning backwards to pick a magic 8 ball off of the floor, starting to toss it up and catch it single handedly. “That’s not a big deal at all.”

He huffs, but Hugh can see him consider this in his expression. “It’s still not _that_ big of a deal.”

“Simon, everyone was really worried,” Hugh sets the ball aside, uncharacteristically serious. “ _I_ was worried. I don’t want to think of what would’ve happened if I hadn’t been carrying that epipen.”

“Mm, okay, I see your point. Thanks for that, by the way.”

“No problem. But seriously, take more care, alright? It kind of scared me.”

Simon looks over, hearing the nearly unnoticeable waver in Hugh’s voice, and finds him glancing away, momentarily vulnerable.

“Hey,” He tugs at Hugh’s arm, picking it up off the bedspread. “C’mere.”

Hugh finds himself folded into an unexpected embrace, Simon squishing his head sideways against his. “I’m alright. It’s okay. _And_ I’ll be more careful, scanning for deadly prawns more often in my meal.”

“Idiot,” Hugh scoffs fondly, but wraps his arms around Simon, feeling his erratic and all consuming world come to a still, in the moment of feeling Simon’s body crushed against his. His calming presence is like a soothing balm, an anchor in the whirlwind of his life.

Someone he could never do without.

“Yeah, but I’m your idiot,” Simon replies, and Hugh can feel him smiling against his shoulder.

“That’s true,” Hugh agrees, mock-seriously, letting himself relax into Simon, and eventually falling asleep in that position, lying down together.

Unbeknownst to them, Simon’s mother comes to check on them, leaving them with the blanket in the correct position, and a fond smile.

The picture she takes of them depicts Hugh somehow almost at the point of falling off the bed, yet still somehow tangled up with Simon, who’s curled into a fetal position.

It’s still saved on her camera roll, when she digs around for it years later.

**Author's Note:**

> onto high school,, this is where the fun begins.
> 
> PLEASE leave a comment, kudos or bookmark it if you liked it i'm so thirsty for that ao3 validation and constructive criticism i really love seeing it and it spurs me on to write more. !!!!!
> 
> yell at me on [tumblr](https://wylvns.tumblr.com) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/Iihnscinder)


End file.
